What Binds the Fabric Together?
by ursomalevolent
Summary: Highschool fic. RogerAngel friendship. The rhythm of guitar and drums is accompanied by the whirr of a Singer. Our favorite musicians meet in their home ec class over the sewing unit.
1. Chapter 1

**What Binds the Fabric Together?**

Forgive my corny title.

**DISCLAIMER**: Do I look like Jonathon Larson to you? Actually, you don't know what I look like, but still.

"Um, is this home ec?" Roger asked apprehensively. He handed the teacher a note and looked around the class room. Two rows of tables like the ones from the science labs faced the black board while twenty or twenty five small table, each holding a sewing machine bordered the room facing the walls. This room was totally different from any of the others in their run-down school. Colorful posters of food pyramids and cartoon characters delivering inspirational messages covered the walls, which had been painted light blue and had a border of flowers right below the ceiling. A door in the corner opened into what appeared to be a food science lab with ovens and stoves.

The teacher looked up from her grading and took the paper being thrust in to her face. After reading the note, she said, "Alright then, Mr. Davis. You can take a seat up there by Emily. Understand me now though, there will be no fooling around in my class or you will be out of here and there won't be anything else for them to drop you into." She looked at him sternly as if trying to prove she meant business. It surprised him slightly that a woman who kept photos of her cats on her desk could indeed be intimidating.

"Right. Thanks," he said simply. Despite his disgust at being placed in a 'chick class,' he really needed this to work out. He was already on this ice with his guidance counselor for being kicked out of his computer class. It wasn't his fault. Teachers had been separating him and his buddy Tom since they were in first grade. If this teacher hadn't known that, well that was his problem; not theirs. Plus, Collins always seemed to find a way to get in trouble around computers. At least they weren't caught surfing porn or something. That was far too low-brow a crime. Maybe Collins' true genius fell in his ability to not get caught. His English, calculus, and chemistry teachers, being something like allies, had vouched for him, but in the end, Roger had been sentenced to a week of detentions and to finish out the remainder of the semester that period in home ec.

Fine. Whatever. He could sew a set of pot holders, maybe bake some cookies if that's what it took. Somehow, he suspected his placement in this class was more a form of punishment in and of itself than a class size and scheduling issue, as had been claimed. He took a seat next to the girl Ms. Nichols had indicated at one of the two-person tables. Rolling her eyes, Emily moved a couple of her notebooks aside to make room for Roger to put his stuff down, as if it were some great trouble. No wonder this girl sat alone.

Deciding to take the diplomatic route, he said, "Hey, I'm Roger. The teacher wanted me to sit here. Cool?" smiling.

He wondered how someone could roll their eyes that much, that fast without getting a headache. "I know who you are," she said, irritably, "and I don't care where you sit." She began filing her claw-like fingernails as they waited for Ms. Nichols to begin the lesson. After a few moments, the dumpy woman took her place in the front of the room.

"Good morning, everyone," she said. There was a general murmur of greeting and she continued. "Since we just finished our family unit, we're going to being sewing. I've got some worksheets and packets we need to go over, then in the last twenty or so minutes, you can being practicing basic stitches." Roger groaned inwardly. This sounded boring, and he couldn't' really see how he would ever use something like sewing. Collins was probably carrying out some sort of nefarious plot in his old computer class as they spoke.

The teacher passed around papers detailing safety rules and explaining tools for the better part of an hour. There were three different sorts of scissors alone, not to mention all the pins and needles: dressmaker's pins, machine needles, embroidery needles, and all the different gauges. It was enough to make Roger wish he could crawl under the table and go to sleep, never to awaken.

For as long as he could remember, Collin's mom had kept a sewing machine set up in their spare bedroom. For as long as he could remember, they'd been forbidden from going anywhere near it. Mrs. Collins had offered to teach them to sew when they were about thirteen and Tom had given it a shot, if only to appease his mother. It's not that he couldn't figure out how to operate the machine or cut the fabric, it was just that all the IQ in the world couldn't make one capable of guiding a piece of cloth under a madcap needle in a straight line. In the end, he'd ended up with a mangled pair of pajama bottoms that he ended up giving to Roger anyway because he'd cut them too small for himself. From that moment on, both boys had washed their hands of sewing forever and steered clear of the back bedroom of the Collins home as much as possible. They could cook though, that was for sure. So at least they weren't both completely without domestic abilities.

Finally, each student was assigned to a sewing station and given two 6x6 squares of white scrap fabric. They were to thread a bobbin and practice a simple straight stitch, sewing the squares together. Miraculously, Roger managed to get his bobbin wound tightly with red thread and loaded it into the little compartment under the presser foot. Or maybe the miraculous part was that he had actually remembered what the "presser foot" was. After a few attempts, he managed to stick the thread through the tiny hole by the point of the needle, but not without a few pricks to his calloused fingertips, which hurt all the same. Roger decided he rather disliked needles.

He lined the cloth up under the needle and flipped the switch on the side, turning on the small light. When he pressed his black Chuck Taylor down on the foot pedal however, nothing happened. How anticlimactic. He'd been expecting the machine to fire up fiercely and send the needle flying across his fabric. "What the fuck?" he mumbled under his breath. It was obviously plugged in because the light was on. So what wasn't anything happening?

"It sort of helps if the foot pedal is actually plugged in to the machine. Duh!" Emily sneered. Of course she would be assigned to be seated next to him. Damn the alphabet. She handed him the loose end of the black cord.

He examined it suspiciously then took it and stuck it into the outlet on the side. "Thanks," he said, trying to be civil, "bitch" he added quietly, not trying quite so hard.

Before she could say anything, an office TA with thick glasses and some zealously religious t-shirt tapped her on the shoulder. "Your mom's here," he said, handing her a call slip, "says you've got a dentist appointment or something." She got up and left with the TA, leaving a vacant machine. With her seat empty, the teacher sent another student over to sit down. Apparently in their class, there was at least one more student than sewing machine.

Without looking at his new neighbor, Roger got back to work on his assignment, This time, when he applied pressure to the foot pedal, the motor inside kicked into gear and the needle began plunging up and down through his fabric. Instead of pulling the cloth through in a line of stitches, a mess of thread from the top and bottom tangles around the needle before it jammed in place. "Damnit, you're not supposed to be doing that," he said under his breath, although he wasn't sure if it was meant for the machine or himself.

He set about pulling out the loose threads and cutting the knots, finally clearing the area of the red mess. Flipping through the packet of work sheets, he found the one about machine parts and read, "'Presser foot must be in lowered position' okay, I guess that explains that. Let's try this again." He turned the wheel on the side to lower the mechanism and hit the black lever by the needle, bringing the presser foot down with a snap on the plastic deck.

Once the machine was finally ready to sew, Roger lined up the fabric, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. He put his foot down on the pedal like it was the gas pedal on his Trans Am. The fabric jerked sharply from between his fingers, running through the machine at a crooked angle and falling off the other side, dangling by the red thread.

"Fine," he groaned, softly, "I give up! Why can't we just skip to baking cookies? I love cookies; I'm good at making cookies. God."

Beside him, the girl who'd taken Emily's seat giggled in his direction. He turned and looked at her, hoping that she was laughing with him, rather than at him, even though he wasn't really laughing himself. Looking at her, however, he saw that it was in fact a guy, probably a freshman, he guessed. He did look a little feminine, though: the boy's eyebrows had clean edges and his slender fingers here ended in shaped, smooth nails. When he spoke, his voice was gentle too.

"Having some trouble, honey?" the boy asked, smiling. Roger had never been called 'honey' by another guy. Well, Collins had once called him 'Pumpkin,' but that was after they had broken into Roger's parents' liquor cabinet, so he supposed that didn't really count. After all, Roger was known to sing nursery rhymes if properly inebriated.

With mock surprise, he asked, "How can you tell?"

The guy smiled and shook his head, "Well, since I sat down here, you've almost cut your fingers off twice. I'm Angel, by the way."

Roger extended a hand to shake Angel's. The guy might seem a little different, but judging from the appearance of the neatly stitched square in front of him, he knew his way around a sewing machine. That made him alright in Roger's book. "Roger Davis. Freshman?" he asked.

"Uh-huh, but I was also new like, last month. I'm guessing you're a…junior?" Angel guessed, narrowing his eyes.

Nodding, Roger said, "Yeah, and I have no idea why I'm in this class. My friend Tom and I got into some trouble in out computer class and I got kicked out. He, on the other hand, did not get caught. But at least I'm not the only guy that got stuck with this crap."

Angel laughed easily, "Actually, I didn't get stuck, I signed up. I want to take Clothing, but you gotta pass this first. I'm dreading cooking though," he said.

Across the room, Ms. Nichols cleared her throat. "Let's keep it to a dull roar ladies and," she paused momentarily looking at Roger and Angel, the only 'gentlemen' in the class, "you two. This isn't social hour."

They both turned to their machines and lowered their heads. "Bitch," they muttered in unison and grinned sheepishly. Roger was actually glad for the interruption; it defused the potentially awkward moment talking about class placement. He'd assumed that Angel's place in the class was the result of a need for a place to stick him, as was common with mid-year transfers.

"So you can actually sew, huh?" he asked.

"Yeah," Angel answered carefully, as though expecting harassment for the fact. "I know most guys aren't supposed to-"

But Roger cut him off, "I think it's cool. Tom's mom tried to teach him, but I guess it's tougher than it looks." He help up his pointer finger with was still leaking a tiny drip of blood.

Angel grinned again. "Thanks. So you say you're a master chef, huh?" he asked. "Well I'll tell you what: I'll help you through sewing and we'll make sure you have that nice apron and pillow case to take home to your mama. After that, you can make sure I don't kill us all trying to make cookies. I burn cereal."

They shook hands between the two machines. "Sounds like a plan. Collins-Tom- well, no one calls him Tom, I guess. Collins' mom taught us to cook when we were kids," he said.

"You spend a lot of time over at this Collins' house, huh?" Angel asked, casually. "With his parents and stuff."

It was true. Every day after school, he could probably be found at the Collins home and often stayed for dinner. Because he was uncomfortable about imposing, Mr. or Mrs. Collins asked him almost every night if he'd be staying for dinner, even though they'd already set a fifth place for him at the table. Around seven-thirty or eight, after the sun had just gone down, one of them would tap politely at Tom's door and say, "Roger, it's pretty late. You're welcome to stay here rather than driving home in the dark." He even had a small box in Collins' closet, lovingly labeled "Roger's shit," for just such nights. He wasn't just free loading though. Whenever yard work needed done, a walk needed shoveling, or any other general chores, Roger was right beside Tom doing his fair share. Once or twice, he'd even babysat Miranda, Tom's seven year old sister by himself when need be.

It wouldn't be his 'mama' that he'd be showing his apron and pillowcase too, either. He'd pull it out of his backpack proudly in the Collins' living room while Tom giggled on the couch beside him and say, "Hey, Mrs. Collins, check out what I made him home ec 'because _someone_ sold me out." It would be Collins' mom who would inspect the edges with her expert eyes and say, "That's not bad at all, dear. Nice job." His chest would swell with pride, but he'd just stick the neck strap over Collins' head and try to tie the straps around his waist while his friend held him at an arms length by the forehead. If he was honest with himself, he would admit that he worked as hard as he did, gaining mostly A's and B's, in school, because he wanted Collins' parents to be as pleased with him as they were with their own son.

Not really wanting to explain that much detail with someone he'd just met, Roger simply said, "Yeah I guess. We've been friends since, jeez, sandbox age, so he's kind of like my brother. His folks are cool." He turned back to his machine and felt the need to study the rule-lines on the deck. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he saw a look on Angel's face that said that he completely understood what his relationship with Collins' family was all about.

Angel glanced over his shoulder to see that the teacher wasn't watching them, then reached over to Roger's machine. "Alright, you know how to drive right?" she asked, detaching excess thread and pulling the thread from the bobbin up further. Roger nodded. "Okay, well when you get in your car, what do you do? Seatbelt, lock the doors, adjust the seat, and adjust your mirrors, before you even start the engine, right?" Well when you're gonna sew, there's stuff you gotta do before you can press the foot pedal or-?" he prompted.

"The gas pedal," Roger said, smiling, "Okay, I get where you're going with this."

For the last few minutes of the class, Angel explained the process in simpler terms for Roger to understand. When the bell rang, he was ready for the next class. We would run to Wal-Mart tonight and get the required yard of fabric for their aprons. Their next class, he would attack his project with at least some level of competence. As long as Angel was sitting next to him to give him reminders, that was.

And then they could make…COOKIES!

_I meant for this to all be one chapter, but you know how it goes sometimes. Next chapter will feature the next class and Roger's accident. It will also be the last chapter. I may even end up like, resubmitting it as all one document. We'll just see how it goes. I swear this isn't turning in to slash, just a friendship. _

_What kind of fabric will both of the new pals have for class? You'll see. _

_Just to apologize in advance, it's going to be at least a week before I can update because we're going on vacation Saturday. Sorries. _

_Reviews? You know you wanna…_


	2. Chapter 2

_You guys left the most amazing reviews ever! I'm sending one of Roger and Angel's home ec cookies to all reviewers because you guys just rock that hard. I was a little bummed though that no one spotted Anthony in the last chapter, but no big. I don't think I made it noticeable enough._

_And finally, I offer my sincerest apologies to anyone who noticed how long it's taken me to get this done! I know I promised one week, but I kept getting sidetracked. This was supposed to all be a lot shorter, but as I typed it from pen and paper, I kept getting other ideas and thinking, "Well, this sounds _okay_ but what if I did it _this_ way." And it just sort of went on from there._

DISCLAIMER: I own Rent, just like how I own Harry Potter, The Beatles, and the entire cast of House. They all live in the controlled habitat I've created for them in my basement. They have games of touch football: English accents –vs- US/Spanish accents. (Chase referees because, although House likes to say otherwise, he's not British) Roger gets sad sometimes because John, Paul, George, and Ringo let Angel jam with them, but not him. House has brow-beaten Mark into admitting his hidden urges toward Fred and George. Joanne and Maureen are having one of their little spats because Sirius, clad in rubber, as he should be, keeps flirting with Maureen. Collins got Cal, the patient from "Hunting" to go to an impromptu Life Support session with them and he's made great progress. Harry's parents, Angel, Cedric, Sirius, and Dumbledore, and April have formed their own support group for deceased fictional characters. Mimi attends occasionally because people always kill her off in fanfics anyway.

To quote Mark: "This is absurd."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Chapter II

"So what's next? You make cookies or something?" Collins asked, not trying to hide his laughter. They were seated at his kitchen table, homework spread out before them. "Do you get to wear this little apron while you bake them?"

To Roger's slight dismay, Collins had had little sympathy for Roger's placement in home economics after "the incident." He supposed he should have known; ever since they were kids, the logic had been _if you weren't smart enough to cover your tracks, you deserved to get caught._ "Shut up, man. You're just lucky you're not right there at the sewing machine beside me." He adopted a scolding mother's voice saying, "And if you keep on like this, you won't get a single cookie, young man. Angel and I will devour them all in front of you."

When the fits of hysteria subsided, Collins wiped his ink stained fingers on the table clothe and started packing papers away. "So who's Angel?" he asked, "The girl you're getting to do your apron for you in exchange for sexual favors?"

"Actually, smart ass, _he_ is the _boy_ who is going to help me sew in exchange for me helping _him_ bake. I'm not the only guy in the class." Roger answered, flipping a pen at Tom's head. "I'm only…. half the guys in it."

"A guy who sews well enough to tutor? Huh, that gains him my respect." He touched his fingertips together in the painful memories of his mother's failed sewing lessons when he was younger.

Roger laughed, "That's what I said. Dude, I almost cut my fu-" he cut off when a little girl with braided hair entered the kitchen, "doggone fingers off. And at first, I didn't even have the thing plugged in. Hey Randa."

"Hello Roger," Miranda, Tom's seven-year-old sister said, innocently, "Thomas, may I please have a Jell-O cup? Mommy put them in the fridge. You can have one too, Roger."

Collins rolled his eyes at his sister and got up to dig through the refrigerator. "Miranda, yes you may have a Jell-O cup if you quit flirting with Roger," he said in the same proper voice his sister had used.

The child blushed furiously and spun around to the counter. For some reason, unknown to both boys, Miranda had developed something of a crush on her older brother's best friend. Whenever he was around, she spoke very formally and called everyone by their proper names, such as 'Thomas' rather than 'Tommy,' as was normal. Roger, who didn't want to hurt her feelings, said, "I'd love a Jell-O cup, Miranda. As long as I can have green, that is."

"Aw come on," Collins protested, "There's only one green one left."

"Roger gets it," she answered, firmly.

When Miranda had gone back to her room, the boys sat back down at the table with their snacks. Collins grumbled, but Roger simply stuck his tongue out and took a dig into the wobbly green goo in his cup. "Being hit on by a first grader has its advantages," he said, laughing. "But seriously, I gotta go to Wal-Mart or something tonight to get fabric for _class,_" he said the last word laced with disdain, "Wanna come?"

Collins thought for a moment, jabbing idly at his regrettably un-green, orange Jell-O. "Yeah, I'll come, but we gotta bring Miranda. My parents are gonna be at that dinner thing for work, remember? And we're _not_ going to Wal-Mart," he declared.

"I don't even wanna ask why, but I'm guessing you're going to tell me. Why can't we go to Wal-Mart?" he asked, wearily.

Launching into a rote monologue, Collins explained his boycott. "For one thing, multi-national conglomerates like Wal-Mart destroy small businesses that create a diverse market in an economy. When a Wal-Mart opens up somewhere, they have low prices to under-cut local businesses then, when all the competition has gone under, the prices slowly creep back up. And as if that's not bad enough, they use sweat shop labor," as he spoke, he gesticulated vehemently with his hands, "You can sell a pair of sneakers for ten bucks if it was made by a little Honduran kid for a nickel an hour. And lot of stuff labeled "Made in the USA" is made in Saipan or other impoverished U.S. territories where labor laws aren't regulated," he finally paused for a breath, following Roger out of the kitchen and upstairs to Miranda's room. "Annually-"

"ENOUGH!" Roger finally cut him off. "I get it, okay, they're all monsters. On the other hand, they have fabric for like, two bucks a yard, but if it means that much to you, we'll go to that sewing store downtown. Get my admirer; I'll go start the car."

Soon, they were buckled into his Trans Am, Miranda in the back, headed for town. Roger stopped the car outside Diane's Sewing and Notions. "Happy Tom?" Roger asked, throwing the car into park. "A small, family owned, independent business, complete with marked up prices to compete with the evil conglomerate."

"Exceedingly, thank you," he answered, "Come on sis, we gotta go help Roger find fabric for his skirt." When Miranda was out of the car walking ahead of them, Roger rapped Collins on the back of the head and gave him the finger.

They walked into the small shop and were greeted by the smells of glue and sizing. An older woman, Diane, they assumed, was seated on a stool behind the counter. She looked at them over the top of her magazine as the little girl lead her brother and Roger through the various racks, pausing whenever something pink caught her eye. Roger didn't think there was a fabric in the shop that wouldn't make him look like an ass if he walked into class with it. It had to be cotton; that was the only guideline they'd been given by Ms. Nichols.

Collins was of no help whatsoever. First, he presented Roger with a bolt of maroon cotton, patterned with gingerbread men dancing cheerfully, then one of pink flowers. Miranda was almost equally as helpful, but at least she meant well, even if it was creepy. She'd pulled out a bolt of dark green, declaring that it would bring out the color of his eyes, and checker board under neon guitars, when the first was rejected.

Then his eyes fell on it. A bolt of fabric sat on a clearance rack, thick from lack of purchases. He couldn't really decide if it was meant to be zebra or snow leopard, but it featured black and white waving stripes of varying thickness and length. It was perfect. It wasn't overly feminine, yet it didn't seem insecurely masculine. He presented it to Diane and asked for a yard and a half. He paid for it and left the store holding Miranda's hand, ignoring Collins' questioning if Roger was preparing for safari.

---------------------Two Days Later-------------------

Roger didn't have home ec again until Wednesday and soon enough, third period rolled around. He and Collins parted ways outside their English class; Collins heading for the computer lab at one end of the hall and Roger for Ms. Nichol's room on the first story. Once inside, he set his things down on the table he shared Emily and sat down. He'd put the black and white fabric in a blue Wal-Mart bag to keep it from getting dirty on the way to school, and he now tied the top snugly to prevent people from seeing what he was using.

Suddenly, he was staring, not absently at the surface of the table as he had been, but the side of someone's denim-clad ass. He recognized the clean smell of soap before he even had a chance to look up: Angel. "_Emily_ will throw a pissy fit if she sees your ass where her precious purse has to go," Roger said, chuckling.

The other boy shrugged and proceeded to shimmy back and forth onto the desk surface, as though trying to rub his butt farther into it. "If she wants me up, she can move me herself. Hell, she probably could," they laughed softly, wary of their teacher at her desk, prepared to strike at any disturbance. Angel's eyes fell on the blue plastic bag on top of Roger's notebooks and scowled. "You bought that at Wal-Mart? Don't you know they-"

"Purposely destroy small town America? Have Honduran children working their fingers to the bone in sweat shops? Slaughter kittens en mass?" Roger interjected, "Yes I've been made well aware. I bought this at that little sewing place in town, Diane's, or something like that." Angel just stared at him, clearly not expecting that response.

He scratched the back of his head, "So I've heard. Actually, the other day in lunch, I overheard this tall guy giving some big speech to someone in the line," he said. "Pretty much right down to the word of what you said, but I don't think he mentioned the kittens," Angel said with a chuckle.

'_Tall guy ranting about the evils of Wal-Mart in lunch?' _Roger thought. "Did this guy buy cheese pizza, plain mashed potatoes, and an apple, by any chance?" Angel nodded, "Yeah, that was probably Collins. Remember, the guy you asked me about last time? He's sort of a creature of habit with his lunch. He's got a vendetta against Wal-Mart, among other things."

"Collins," Angel said slowly. "Tom Collins, right? Your brother-from-another-mother?"

"The one and only," Roger agreed. "Can you tell why I hang out with him as much as I do?"

Angel didn't answer, but nodded slowly, obviously thinking. At that moment, they spotted Emily strutting haughtily into the classroom. Not wanting to risk unnecessary confrontation, Angel shrugged and slid off the table. As she passed, he gave her a 100-watt smile and blew her a kiss, making the girl scoff, but blush furiously and drop quickly in her seat. Roger peeked at Angel over his shoulder and saw that, from his seat closer to the back, he held up a middle finger at his table-mate's turned back. He hid his laughter with a cough and the back of his hand, turning to face the blackboard.

Over the next forty-five minutes, the class pinned worn apron patterns to their fabric and cut carefully along the edges. "It is of the utmost importance that you do not arrange your patterns upside down on the fabric," Ms. Nichols said nasally over the general din that had filled the room. The patterns looked more or less symmetrical to Roger, and he couldn't figure out how there could really be an 'upside down,' but he decided to heed her advice anyway. He _was_ the one who forgot to check that his foot pedal was plugged in, after all. The task was fairly mindless as they'd been cutting shapes out of construction paper since kindergarten, but it still took time. Roger found that the waves in the stripes of his fabric caused him to need to blink furiously every few moments to refocus his gaze. Soon enough, his nimble fingers, trained by years of practicing guitar, finished guiding the scissors around the apron, pocket, and three thin strips to be made into a neck strap and ties.

With about forty minutes remaining, Ms. Nichols spoke up and the class quieted to hear her. "By now, you should have completed your patterns. I'd like you to move to the machines I assigned last class and begin attaching your front pockets. If you have any questions, please refer to the packets you received before you ask me a question you can answer yourself," she gazed around the room imperiously. "Oh yes," she added, "I would like for Mr. Schunard to work at station fourteen and for Ms. Dillon to work at number eight. Because we have an absence, everyone will have a machine today. Please move now to your stations."

Her order was followed by the usual commotion of moving chairs and idle chatter. Roger approached the sewing machine he'd been assigned to and remembered the large number '**13**' that had been stenciled on the side, designating it as station thirteen. A moment later, Angel was pulling out the chair in front of the machine stenciled with '**14**' uniformly on the side. He flopped his books irritably onto the floor and sat down.

Roger watched as his neighbor lined up the already pinned fabric under the needle and remembered to lower the presser foot. A deep scowl was plastered across his face and his movements weren't with all the dexterity they had been last class.

"Something wrong dude?" Roger asked. The sullen behavior seemed uncharacteristic for him. "Fresh-meat blues?"

Angel shook his head and cracked a small smile. "Nah, I'm just bored out of my mind. I was doing harder stuff than this when I was like, eleven. See this shirt?" he plucked at the sleeve of the orange button down he was wearing over a white t-shirt. "I made this shirt! A damn apron is a waste of my time. And on top of it all, I had to dig through my mom's sewing bag to find fabric because I didn't have time to go to the store. This is the leftovers of some curtains she made in our old house." The fabric waiting to be sewn was a dark red with green and black lines in a plaid pattern.

An idea struck. "Actually, I really like your pattern. It doesn't really look like it belongs on an apron though. Maybe, I don't know, pants or something. Good job with getting away with something that wasn't plain cotton by the way," he said, holding up one of the thin strap pieces.

"Thanks, I like yours too. You don't really strike me as a zebra print kind of guy though," he said, chuckling.

Roger held up his neatly cut out cloth. "Care for a swap? I like the stripes, but I could live without it. Staring at it for too long sort of makes me dizzy."

"Awesome," Angel grinned now at full wattage. "You're sure you don't mind? I mean, I know I was bitching, but it's not really a huge deal."

He was happy to see that Angel was back to his usual, upbeat self. "Hey, what's some fabric between friends?" he said. They exchanged projects and began setting up their own machines. The straight grids created by the plaid were definitely easier to work with than the swirling, sweeping stripes of zebra print. As he worked, Roger thought about what Angel had said about the assignment being too easy. The frustration of having to slow down for a class was not an unfamiliar feeling to him. "Hey, I know what you mean about how you're already beyond this, by the way" he said after a few minutes of quiet work. The room had filled with the steady _whirr_ of other machines. "In fifth grade, I joined band and we were doing all these stupid little exercises to learn to read music, but I'd been doing that for years, not that it's overly necessary anyway. After two months, I just quit. Well, I quit because he wanted me to play trombone, but I still get your boredom."

"You play?" Angel asked, interested.

"Yeah, I play. Guitar in a garage band, but my guys would rather chase groupies," he answered.

"High school," Angel said, shrugging.

"High school," Roger agreed. "Why, do you play anything?"

Angel picked up the pens that were on top of his books and began a simple beat on the edge of the desk. "I've played the drums since I was really little. Most kids grow out of that fascination with banging wooden spoons on pots in the kitchen, but I just got better. I was in the band at my old school, but I couldn't get into it in the middle of the year here."

"You oughta come by our practices some time. We've got a drummer, Dale, but he's full of shit," he said. As they talked, they'd both been running their machines and keeping most of their focus on the work in front of them. When Roger got on the subject of his band however, his concentration on the task at hand waned and he turned his vision to Angel sitting next to him. "You could probably be—AAHH! Shit, fuck, shit! AAHHH!" Roger shouted. While he'd been speaking excitedly to Angel, his foot, poised over the foot pedal, had come down and pressed it full force to the floor. His left, index finger, which had been resting on the fabric, had been pulled with it. Before he could stop it, his needle plunged deeply into the side of the finger, almost coming out through the other side, stopped by the nail. Roger, who had never thought himself one to react drastically to pain felt the color draining from his face.

Beside him, Angel leapt to his feet. "Oh my god, what did you do?" he gasped. He quickly pulled the plug out of the side of the machine and grabbed Roger's wrist. "Sit still," he added, obviously feigning calm. The rest of the class, Ms. Nichols included had jumped at Roger's outburst and were on their way over. Before anyone could intervene, Angel holding Roger's wrist to the deck of the machine, slowly turned the manual wheel on the side, raising the needle out of the other boy's finger. Luckily, the thread came out cleanly with the needle and Roger's hand was free and he sprang to standing.

For someone so accustomed to various scrapes, cuts, and other wounds from general roughhousing and the occasional flip off the skateboard, Roger _hated_ seeing his own blood. He didn't know why for sure. Was it because it gave too close a look into the inner workings of his physical body, or was it just because it was so god damned _red_? Whether from adrenaline or simply because the wound wasn't as bad as he'd initially thought, he wasn't in a terrible amount of pain. As long as he didn't look at it, he would- be- and then he looked at it. He sat down quickly, sucking on the tip of his finger, the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. The class surrounded them now, looking on with a mixture of horror and sympathy. Ms. Nichols attempted to extricate Roger's hand from his mouth, but he pulled away.

"Let me see it, Davis," she demanded.

Stubbornly, Roger shook his head, "Nuh-uh."

"Are you bleeding?" she asked, a hint of apathy penetrating her voice.

He starred at her blankly from his seat. "I think he caught his finger in the needle, Ms. Nichols," Angel supplied meekly.

She rounded on him. "Yes, I assumed as much, Mr. Schunard. What with his outburst of expletives and all," she looked down at Roger again and then back at Angel. "Well, would you please escort him to the nurse's office then?"

Angel simply nodded and wrapped a hand around Roger's upper arm to steady him as he stood. Obviously, he was the only one who could see how badly Roger was milking the situation. Sure, it hurt a bit now, and would most likely hurt more later when the adrenaline wore off, and he was definitely disgusted by the sight of it, but he wasn't going to pass out. He allowed himself to be lead out of the classroom and halfway down the hall, but before they could reach the office, he stopped.

"Man, I'm not going to the nurse's office," he said, irritably.

Angel stared at him blankly. "Look, I know you're not gonna pass out, but you should still probably get that thing cleaned up. Why don't you wanna go to the nurse?"

"I hate that lady," he began, "Last year, I was having these stomach problems for a while and she kept swearing I was just faking and sent me back to class. Plus, it's not that bad. I can wash it myself and I think I have some band-aids in my bag." Even as he took the finger from his mouth to speak, it was obvious that it was still bleeding profusely. "Only thing is, I can't really look at it. God, I hate the sight of blood."

Looking around the hallway, Angel explored their options. "Alright well, I'll go in the office and ask for a band-aid, just say I cut my finger or something. Then we'll go to the bathroom and I'll wash it off for you so you don't puke." Roger just nodded in agreement. They walked a bit further, closing the distance between themselves and the nurse's office. "So you're really that squeamish, huh?" Angel asked, barely hiding a giggle.

"Shut up, dude," Roger said, grumpily. "It's not all blood, just mine. I think it's sort of like how you don't really want to know what your McDonald's meal is made of."

Angel rolled his eyes and entered the nurse's office while Roger leaned against the wall outside. It occurred to him suddenly that they had not been given hall passes and could probably be given detention for wandering around. _I'm a brick wall, I'm a brick wall, _he thought, hoping that if a teacher did come out into the hall, they wouldn't think anything of his being there. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off and a dull thudding was sinking into his hand where the needle had pierced his finger.

A few moments later, Angel emerged from the office holding a band-aid and a couple of alcohol swabs. "We're gonna have to get you a thimble for next class I think," he said, beginning to walk away.

"Is that any way to talk to an injured man?" Roger asked, mocking offense, but following Angel's lead toward the boys' room all the same. As they walked, he thought about how Angel seemed to have taken charge of the situation and supposed he must be responsible for younger siblings or something.

They entered the boys' bathroom next to the stairs leading up the second story and down to the basement. Angel Kung-fu kicked open each of the stall doors to see if anyone was there and as there was obviously no one at the urinals, there was obviously no one else in the bathroom. "Okay, let me see the finger," he said, hopping up on the counter of sinks.

He held out his hand not quite close enough for Angel to touch. The other boy rolled his eyes and grabbed his wrist, pulling the finger, still seeping blood up for inspection. Roger yanked his hand back sharply, "Watch it, you're going to get blood on yourself," he growled.

"What, worried I'm going to catch your AIDS or something?" Angel asked sarcastically.

"I don't _have_ AIDS!" Roger said, this time sounding genuinely defensive. "But if you get blood on that shirt, I'll have to look at it and I just-" His voice was becoming flustered as he cast around for the right words.

"Okay, okay," Angel interjected placidly. He unbuttoned the bottom buttons of his orange shirt and pulled it off, leaving the black t-shirt. Neatly, he folded it and set it on the counter beside him. "Happy?" he asked. "This way, even if you do bleed on me, which you still better not, you won't be able to see it." Roger nodded lamely and gave Angel his hand again to look at. Perched on the sink, he turned the calloused fingers over and held the injured one up, wrinkling his nose. "Okay well, that's disgusting, but the needle didn't go all the way through."

"Thank you so much for the encouragement, Ang," Roger said, dryly. '_Ang?_' he thought. _Where did that come from? And why did it not really seem all that strange at all?_

If Angel found his choice of words strange, he didn't let on to it. He tore open an alcohol swab packet with his teeth. "This is going to sting, but just for a second" he said, gently, as though comforting a child. Roger decided he'd been right in thinking that Angel was used to doing the same thing for younger siblings. As he worked, he kept speaking without looking up, probably to keep Roger's mind off his finger. "Anyway," he said offhandedly, "I read in this one article that HIV is actually really hard to catch and it's not a big a deal as they make it out to be."

That went against most of the little that Roger had read on the subject, but it made sense. One of Collins' favorite subjects was how the medical and pharmaceutical companies liked to blow illnesses out of proportion in order to pad their bottom lines. "Oh well," he said, "blood is still gross." He tried not to wince while Angel swabbed his finger with alcohol but it was just adding to the already mounting pain in his hand. "You're pretty good at this," he added. "Do you take care of your brothers and sisters or something?"

"Yeah, I have little sister, two little brothers, and an older sister, Carmen," he said. "So do you want green with dinosaurs or yellow with daisies?" he held up two slips of thin white paper.

Acting as though it were a life changing decision, Roger scratched his chin introspectively. "Well, I think I'll have to opt for the dinosaurs," he said after much deliberation.

Gently, Angel wrapped the bandage around his finger and closed one strip of adhesive over the other. "Good call," he said. "Well, you're all set. Does it hurt much?"

"I think I'll live," Roger said. "Besides, I think it's my pride that's hurt more than anything. I'm guessing you've never gone one on one with a sewing machine." He leaned up against one of the stall doors which promptly swung inward. Unsupported, Roger stumbled back and fell onto the toilet laughing at himself.

Still sitting on the sink, Angel chuckled along with Roger. "No, I haven't. And I'm guessing stuff like this isn't a rare occurrence for you," he said. He hopped off the counter and offered a hand to Roger, who gratefully accepted, and helped pull him to his feet. "Did you wanna go back to class or can we just stall in here until the end of the hour?" he asked. "Er- no pun intended."

Looking around for anything to change the subject to than his tumble into the toilet stall, Roger picked up the orange shirt Angel had folded and laid on the counter. He noticed that there was no tag or label sewn in to the collar and the raw edge exposed under it didn't have the finished edge usually seen on store bought clothes. It really was hand made, and very well at that. "Um no, I'm fine just staying here and getting our right before the bell rings," he said distractedly. "Hey Angel, did you really make this yourself?"

Angel, who was washing his hands in the sink, looked behind himself in the dirty mirror. "I said I did, didn't I? I make a lot of my own clothes actually. Wouldn't wanna shop the evil conglomerate now, would I?" He shut off the faucet and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Not just sew it, I can design stuff too. Shirts, pants, skirts, whatever," he said.

"Skirts?" Roger asked. "What, for your sisters?" He was still pretty impressed by Angel's conquering of the machine that had just drilled a hole in his finger, even if it was because of his short attention span. It really wasn't fair that he had to drag through a class he probably could be teaching.

With his back still to Roger, Angel became very interested in clearing the counter of the used first-aid supplies and making sure there was no blood dripped there. "My sisters? Oh-oh yeah," he said uneasily. "I make the skirts for them. They-uh- they wear them and- yeah." His hands went idly to fiddle with something a few inches about his knees, although Roger saw nothing there. It looked like he was wringing the end of a hem that wasn't there.

"Cool," Roger said, then paused. An odd idea had just occurred to him. Since he'd met Angel, he'd reminded him of someone he knew, although he couldn't really put a finger on it. Did he really remind him of anyone he knew, or just someone who would get on well with someone he knew? If he was wrong about his assumption, he didn't want Angel to be offended, but he decided it was worth the shot. "Hey Angel?" he asked, in as casual a voice as he could manage.

Angel turned from the counter toward him, composure regained, and smiling easily again. "Hmm?"

He leaned up against the divider between two stall doors this time so that there was no where for him to fall and make an ass of himself again. Taking a deep breath, he considered how best to word his question. "Okay, I wanna ask you something, but if I'm out of line, you can totally, you know, slug me or whatever, okay?" he said in one breath.

Giving him a sideways glance, he skeptically said, "Um, okay. Shoot. Don't worry, if you're that far out of line, I won't hit you, just make you sew something on your own."

"_Funny_" Roger said, heavy with sarcasm. "Okay. I was wondering how you would feel about me fixing you up with a friend of mine." Angel starred at him blankly for a moment, "It's cool if you're not up for it- I just-."

Angel held up a hand to silence him. "No, it's fine. So, this friend of yours, what's she like?" His tone was that of one asking a distant aunt if her gift of footie pajama's came with a receipt.

_She? _Roger thought. _Maybe I was wrong. If so, this could be a tricky one to get out of. But he doesn't sound very enthusiastic about it. Maybe… _"Actually, I meant-um- I was talking about- shit. Look, I'm talking about a guy; a male friend of mine," he clarified. "But again, I don't mean to assu-"

"No!" Angel interjected quickly. "I mean, no, don't worry about it."

Relieved, Roger exhaled deeply. So he was wrong and Angel wouldn't be interested in a boyfriend, oh well. At least he wasn't upset. Not really sure of how to segue from the subject, he just said, "Cool," and began to inspect his band-aid gingerly.

The boys' bathroom was quiet for a few moments as both boys pretended to be busy with something else. Finally, Angel broke the stillness. "So," he began carefully, "what's he like?" When he looked up, a small blush had crept into his tanned cheeks.

_Yes!_ Roger was unable to contain his joy at Angel's reaction. "I swear you'll love him," Roger exclaimed, then with a smirk, added, "he's like a brother to me."

FIN

_Again, I'm sorry for how long this took. It's come out like pulling teeth. I'm actually considering an alternate ending sort of deal with a sequel, but that's the end of this version. If I do do something else with it, it'll be under another title. _

_If you feel inclined, reviews would really be appreciated. I'll take constructive criticism, love, flames, whatever you got; just to let me know it got read. _


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